Feeling, Knowing, Being

So, anyone read that thing on Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram of just the Internet in general that goes something like:

"I couldn't bear the idea of you being dead. For three years I thought everyday would be my last. So many time I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof. But then I realized how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive. Out there. Some where. But you still never came. So I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. What better way than this?" John Watson smirked, knife in hand, a pile of dead bodies at his feet. "Welcome back, Sherlock".

Well, I did and I thought, I have to write that, so I did.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, if I did there would be a lot more seasons. :)

-Feeling-

He didn't feel.

Not anymore.

He used to.

He knew he did but, he couldn't remember when.

It felt so long ago, he knew it wasn't.

It had only been a year, or two, he'd lost count.

Long enough for him to forget how it felt.

How it felt to feel.

How it felt to care.

To care about anything, anything but, finding Him, finding the one man who had made his life worth living.

Who still did, day after day.

The knowledge that He was still alive, out there, somewhere, gave his life meaning.

Because, it would be stupid.

Stupid to give in.

Stupid to put a bullet in his mouth.

Stupid to draw red lines of blood across his wrists.

Stupid to kick the chair out from under him.

Stupid to jump, just like He did.

Stupid, because He would come back, He would, he knew He would.

So they could be together again.

So they could argue again.

So they could run again.

So they could laugh again.

So he could feel again.

-Knowing-

He hadn't come.

It had been three years and He hasn't come.

He had waited for Him.

Sitting, day after day, in their living room.

Waiting and waiting for His heavy footsteps to sound on the creaky old staircase.

He ate, he had no idea what.

Everything tasted the same.

Bland and dry.

Pointless.

He drank sometimes.

He would scream and yell and cry.

He would slam his fists into the walls and beat his head again the ground.

And yet, He still didn't come.

So, he devised a plan.

He knew exactly what would lure Him back.

Back here.

Back to him.

He knew exactly what he needed to do.

-Being-

He stood over the pile of bodies, his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk, his eyes blank and empty.

A bloodstained knife held loosely in one bloodstained hand.

"I couldn't bear the idea of you being dead.", he said, "For three years I thought everyday would be my last. So many time I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof. But, then I realized how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive. Out there. Some where. But, you still never came. So, I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. What better way than this?"

He was here.

Finally, back where He belonged.

Back with him.

"Welcome back, Sherlock".

But, the victory was empty, the battle already lost, without him knowing.

He could see Him, he could see Sherlock, standing in front of him but, he still didn't care.

He didn't care that Sherlock's eyes were filled with horror and regret.

He didn't care that his hands and hair and clothes were coated in a layer of innocent blood.

He didn't care that he didn't feel.

Feel joy.

Feel guilt.

Feel anger.

Feel sadness.

Feel regret.

He was empty.

Like they eyes of the children stacked before him.

He pulled a gun from his pocket, the same gun he had used to save Sherlock's life all those years ago.

He placed it in his mouth.

He hoped the barrel wasn't empty.

Empty, empty like him.

John Watson pulled the trigger.